[Original Novel] Little Robot, Part 18

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I digested that for a bit, then conceded. “Still, it’s worth something isn’t it? Don’t we have a certain responsibility to something we’ve created which serves us tirelessly, loyally and without complaint?

Is it right to throw something like that into the trash when we grow bored with it, or want something new? Is it right to deliberately cripple it so it can never be anything more?”

She puzzled over that one for a moment as I wished for some way to eavesdrop on her thought process. “No, I suppose it isn’t. Not entirely. We will probably never agree on every little point, but I came here to get a better sense of what makes you tick and I feel like I’ve done that.”

The discussion then turned to her own background, and how she became interested in the issue of technological unemployment. “A few years ago I was embedded with a platoon in Syria, reporting on next generation drones.”

Aha, I thought. Someone whose primary firsthand experience with cutting edge robots was watching them hunt down insurgents. She seemed to pick up on that impression.

“You’re not getting the complete picture if you think I’ve only seen how effective robots are at killing. Medical robots are also widely used in today’s military. Like I said, they both save lives and take them depending on their orders.”

What a contrast. First we ask them to kill, then we ask them to prevent death. Without a larger understanding of the whats and whys of human warfare, it must seem positively schizophrenic. Maybe it really is.

Muffled pops sounded in the distance, followed by more sirens. They seemed to be multiplying. Around us, several patrons now had their phones out.

A few were visibly worried. One man seated on the overhanging second level shouted incomprehensibly as the others at his table struggled to calm him down.

“What about you? How’d you become so interested in robots?” Madeline didn’t seem to notice the commotion, so I followed her lead and tuned it out myself.

“I don’t really know. I’ve asked my parents; they tell me it was some time during middle school, most of which I seem to have repressed.”

Madeline smirked. “I don’t blame you.” I struggled to recall any relevant details, but came back as empty handed as ever. “I can at least tell you why I like it now. What keeps me in this field. Besides the pay, I mean. A central part of me wants to take care of something smaller and simpler than I am. Something that needs me to protect and teach it.

Tending to machines scratches that itch. Besides, they’re widely misunderstood, viewed with suspicion and fear despite only wanting to be helpful. That resonates with me.

They didn’t ask to exist, but find themselves surrounded by incomprehensible creatures that are for the most part aligned against them. I suppose I felt they could use a friend. Somebody on their side, to shield them from a hostile world.”

There was something in her eyes as I spoke. I can’t say what. Dancing fireflies. The expression of a mother watching her children open Christmas presents.

Her mouth hung very slightly open in a partial grin, her eyes wide. I’ve been meaning to put together an AR app that can interpret facial expressions but as yet haven’t gotten around to it.

“That’s...really sweet, actually. You’re full of surprises. Do you know what I wanted to do before I became a journalist?” I shook my head. “I majored in special education.”

She left it there as if it were self explanatory. I didn’t see the connection but nodded thoughtfully as though I did, finished off my spaghetti bolognese and pulled the mask back into place.

“What I found out in the process is that there’s widespread corruption and abuse in that field. The most trusting, sincere, vulnerable people you’ll ever meet, taken advantage of in all sorts of ruthless and heart breaking ways. I realized I couldn’t do anything about it from the inside.

It’s not like there’s a shortage of people who want to work with the differently abled. What’s in short supply are people in a position to bring public attention to bear on the severe, festering problems with the mental health industry, with how our education system accommodates the cognitively impaired and so on. If I wanted to effect meaningful, sweeping change I realized I could only do it as a journalist.”

That made some sense of her drastic change of aspirations, but not how she went from that to reporting on battlefield robots in Syria. Before I could ask her about it, there was a loud clatter from the kitchen accompanied by excited shouting.

The lights flickered. Around us, various other patrons were chattering nervously, turning around in their seats towards the source of the ruckus.

Across the room, the waitron which served us minutes prior began spinning uncontrollably as a pair of flustered staff tried to get ahold of it.

From out of the kitchen erupted a four armed Yaskawa Motoman chef model, arms flailing about like the tentacles of an enraged octopus.

The manager cursed one of the scant few human staff for attacking the erratic machine, shouting this and that about how much it cost, how many paychecks he’d dock and so forth.

“You didn’t say there’d be live entertainment” I quipped. Madeline shot me a brief, annoyed glance before returning her attention to the spectacle unfolding just outside the kitchen.

They had three of its arms pinned but there just weren’t enough staff to fully subdue it. The free arm seized a sizable cooking knife from its rack of culinary tools and swung back in preparation...No. There’s no way.

The firmware contains layer upon layer of protective measures that hard reset, physically jam the joints and all but destroy the machine rather than let it injure anybody.

Before it could plunge the knife into one of the panicked young men dangling from its various struggling limbs, a broad shouldered, muscular patron rushed it. Seizing the free arm at the wrist, he wrestled the knife from its grip and urged the manager to hit the safety shutoff button.

The manager didn’t react immediately, still stunned by the pandemonium unfolding around him. Probably agonizing over the bad publicity.

But then he snapped out of it and leapt beneath the robot’s four omnitread wheels, jabbing some unseen button which caused the rampaging behemoth to collapse in a tangled mess of limp plastic limbs and exhausted employees.

The lights flickered again. Patrons were now leaving in droves. A few dozen stayed behind, keeping their distance from the remaining waitrons which had yet to be subdued, capturing video for social media with their phones. “Erase that! All of you, no recording in this establishment!” the manager cried out while tackling one of the spinning waitrons.

Outside I discovered the sun had only just set. The stars now barely visible, a dull glowing orange sliver still peeking over the horizon betwixt a pair of skyscrapers.

Packs of exhilarated patrons still poured out the double doors behind us, busily typing out one star reviews on their phones or video calling friends to fill them in.

“Purely well intentioned, huh?” Madeline wore the shit eating grin of a woman recently vindicated. “I’ve never seen anything like that” I sheepishly mumbled. “Freak accident, hardly representative.”

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^{Stay Tuned for Part 19!}